14: The Submissive Butler(2)

Cecilia entered the mansion.

He was already waiting in the sitting room, standing perfectly still, as if he’d been there for hours. He wore a black vest, a crisp button-up shirt, and tailored slacks. The sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing veins and muscle just beneath the surface, decorative, deliberate. His jaw was set, his posture perfect.

She paused.

He didn’t look up.

How lovely, she thought.

He was already in character.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

Cecilia stepped closer, slow and deliberate, letting her heels echo across the marble. Then she let the fur coat slide off her shoulders. He caught it without fumbling. Good.

She circled him once, close enough to graze his sleeve with her fingers. His posture was flawless, but she saw it in his jaw, the tension, the held breath, the anticipation.

And she wondered, not for the first time, what makes a man like him bend?

Was it boredom? Guilt? A fantasy of being powerless, of being spoken to like he was nothing? Or maybe it was simpler than that. Maybe he just liked the feeling of a woman’s voice telling him what to do.

She tilted his chin up with one gloved finger. He didn’t resist.

“You’re standing already?” she said, her tone cool and unhurried. “I didn’t say you could rise.”

That got his attention. His gaze flicked up briefly, just enough to gauge her tone.

She held his eyes for a moment, then looked him over like something beneath her, amusing, almost decorative.

“Down,” she said softly. “Kneel. Greet me properly.”

He obeyed without a word.

He lowered himself to the polished floor, one knee first, then the other. His hands rested palms-up on his thighs, head bowed slightly, like he already knew who he belonged to.

Cecilia walked past him slowly, letting the hem of her coat graze his shoulder. She trailed one gloved finger lightly along the line of his jaw as she moved toward the living area. He shivered, just once.

Good. He remembered who was in control.

She sat without urgency, choosing a fainting couch draped in dark velvet. The coat stayed on for a moment longer, heat pooling around her like a secret. Then she crossed one leg over the other and began removing her gloves, finger by finger, unhurried.

She didn’t look at him.

“Remove my coat,” she said. “Gently. If you wrinkle it, you’ll regret it.”

He stood silently, approached, and slipped the coat from her shoulders with the caution of someone handling fine silk or live flame. His hands hesitated slightly near her collarbone.

That hesitation was delicious.

When he moved to fold the coat, she leaned in a fraction.

“Now bring me a glass of wine,” she said. “On your knees. Don’t spill a drop.”

He froze for a beat. Then moved.

He crawled to the bar across the room, not hurried, but graceful, like he’d practiced this. She watched every motion: the roll of his shoulders beneath the shirt, the way his hands braced against the floor, the straightness of his back despite the humiliation of the position. It was elegant, how he obeyed.

She wondered how many boardrooms those hands had commanded. How many deals had he made with men who had no idea he craved this, needed this?

He brought the glass back, crawling with quiet composure, head bowed like she was royalty.

When he reached her, she didn’t reach for the wine.

She reached for his jaw.

Cool fingers tilted his face up to hers. “Look at me,” she said.

His eyes met hers… vulnerable, wanting.

“You’re quiet, Butler.”

“It is not my place to speak unless given permission, Mistress.”

Cecilia smiled. “Good boy.”

She took the wine.

The wine was a dark red, bold, almost indecent against the candlelight. She sipped it slowly, savoring the taste, French, expensive, a little dramatic. Just like him.

“You may kiss my hand,” she said. “Once.”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against the back of her fingers. His breath was warm, a tremor passing from his mouth to her skin.

“Now sit,” she added. “But not on the furniture.”

She pointed to the floor beside her legs.

“The floor will suit you fine.”

He obeyed immediately, folding himself into position like a trained pet. His thigh brushed against her heel, his head slightly bowed again, silent, still, present.

She watched him for a long moment, sipping her wine.

His presence was a quiet kind of devotion, the kind that begged for notice without making a sound. She sipped again, letting him feel the weight of her silence, the distance between her power and his need. It was hard for men like him to stay still, to listen without speaking, to surrender control.

But that was what made it satisfying.

He sat at her feet, perfectly still.

Finally, she spoke, her voice low but deliberate, the cadence he was trained to hear.

“You’ve been waiting all day for me, haven’t you?” she said casually, as if discussing the weather.“Desperate to please me.”

She didn’t look at him right away. She let the words hang in the air like perfume. Then she tilted her head, just enough to catch his expression.

His lips parted slightly. “Yes, Miss Cecilia. I have…”

She cut him off with a smirk.

“That’s adorable.”

Her tone dropped, cool and amused. “But it’s not your place to hope.”

She leaned in slightly, setting the glass down with a quiet clink.

“You serve,” she said. “I decide.”

His eyes dropped to the floor again.

As they should.

She leaned forward just enough for him to feel it in the air between them. When she spoke next, her voice was velvet over steel.

“I’ve had a long day,” she murmured. “You’ll make yourself useful tonight.”

A beat passed. “But don’t mistake usefulness for privilege.”

She reached out, running her fingers lightly through his hair. His breath caught. Then, without warning, she tightened her grip, firm enough to pull his head back just an inch, assertive, elegant, precise.

He gasped quietly. The sound pleased her.

“You’re not allowed to touch,” she said, her voice lower now. “Unless given permission. Understood?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “Understood, Mistress.”

She released him.

Then stood.

Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she turned her back to him, heading toward the hallway toward wherever she decided they would go next.

She didn’t look back when she spoke.

“Follow,” she said. “Keep your eyes on the floor.”

She paused at the doorway, her voice dropping to a whisper just loud enough to carry.

“And if you behave well like a good boy should…” Her lips curved faintly. “I might let you worship me properly.”

She heard the subtle shift of his knees against the marble as he began to crawl again, quiet, obedient, reverent.

She led him through the corridor slowly, trailing a finger along the edge of the banister as she walked. The house was even more silent now, as though it, too, had submitted.

They reached the master suite, a space with old bones and new luxury. No clutter. No warmth. Just a large bed, low lighting, and a wall of tall windows looking out into the night. The city glittered beyond the glass like a galaxy she had no interest in joining.

Cecilia stopped at the center of the room, standing tall in the soft glow of the sconces.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the floor in front of the ottoman at the foot of the bed. “Back straight. Hands behind your back.”

He obeyed immediately, folding himself into place like discipline had been bred into his bones.

She circled him slowly, heels clicking against the marble, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth stayed closed even though she could practically feel the words he wanted to say. To ask.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, stopping behind him.

He hesitated.

“Careful,” she murmured. “I didn’t say you could lie.”

“I’m thinking…” he said carefully, voice low, “how much I want to serve you. How lucky I am to be here.”

She hummed softly. “Flattery,” she said. “Safe. But acceptable.”

Her nails drifted down the back of his neck. His skin jumped beneath her touch. She smiled.

“And what are you feeling?” she asked, voice right at his ear.

Another pause.

“Grateful,” he whispered. “Nervous.”

Cecilia stepped around to face him again, her eyes meeting his. She saw the truth there, this wasn’t just a game to him.

He needed this.

The stillness. The structure. The permission to fall apart under someone else’s control.

Good.

That hunger would serve her well.